


Untitled (For Now)

by the_girl_with_the_coffee



Category: Broadway - Fandom, Hedwig and the Angry Inch (2001), Hedwig and the Angry Inch - Trask/Mitchell, John Cameron Mitchell - Fandom
Genre: Midnight Radio, Music, pov fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2015-05-14
Packaged: 2018-03-30 11:08:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3934537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_girl_with_the_coffee/pseuds/the_girl_with_the_coffee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fic that covers the different point of views of the characters (Hedwig, Yitzhak, Skszp, Tommy, and Phyllis) during Hedwig's show. Goes from the beginning of Exquisite Corpse until the end of Midnight Radio.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hedwig

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Audrey_Lynne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Audrey_Lynne/gifts).



> Also, massive shout-out to Audrey_Lynne for going through and editing this.

If Yitzhak opens that fucking door one more fucking time, she’s going to fucking scream.   
This is hard enough to get through; tonight’s a rough night and she’s not sure what’s making it so hard, but for some reason all she wants to do is run out of here and scream and maybe throw herself off a tall building. But there’s no way she can do that, not when there’s a thousand people here staring at her, wanting to meet Tommy Gnosis’s mystery woman, the one that contributed to the blindness and misfortune of all those little deaf children.  
Maybe it’s the stories. Maybe it’s because she’s telling the real stories. The way she really grew up, a girly-boy in East Berlin with a father who touched her and a mother who didn’t care. The way she met Luther, the way he left her behind in the dustbowl of Kansas. The way she met Tommy. The way he took the good stuff from her and fled.   
Maybe it’s because right now she’s supposed to be seguing into her final angsty rock song, but instead feels like she’s about to scream.  
“He took the good stuff –”  
And he did. She used wonder about which half got the better stuff and clearly it’s Tommy; clearly it’s the boy that thought he could handle her and clearly couldn’t. The boy that became famous riding the backs of her songs.   
“- And ran.”   
And run he did, leaving her alone in that trailer again, abandoning her without a second thought, too terrified by something that did not fit into his worldview. Afraid of her, as if she was some vengeful god that had torn his life apart the way Luther had torn apart hers, the way she’d torn apart –   
The way she’d torn apart Yitzhak.   
That thought, that’s too much, and it splits her down the middle like a bolt of lightning, and before she can stop herself, she is screaming. Screaming, screaming, screaming, maybe she’s saying the lyrics but who knows anymore. Yitzhak is looking at her in concern; so is Skszp, so is Schlatko, so is everyone; if she could see the audience she’s sure they’d probably have that same worried look on their faces.   
Everything’s running through her mind in a tidal wave, a screaming roar that drowns out everything else – her mother, Luther, Tommy, Yitzhak, their faces swirling together, different thoughts clashing against each other like two titans in battle. No, not two, that would mean that there were only two problems and that’s not true, that’s the opposite of true. There’s a thousand titans throwing themselves at each other in her head and it shows.   
The dress is suddenly too tight, the waist of it crushing her, the neckline strangling her, and the next thing she knows the fabric is a pile on the floor, torn strips of shimmery slinky black fabric that surround her. Everything’s flickering – the screen behind her is flashing dozens of images, but she’s sure she’s seeing them wrong. There’s no reason for it to be showing pictures like that – different limbs, different bodies, pieces stuck together, body parts jammed against each other even though they don’t remotely match. Just like her. It looks just like her. It’s her, some puzzle pieces jammed together in a way that doesn’t quite fit, just like her and her mother, just like her and Luther, just like her and Tommy.   
The tomatoes are the next to go, red pulp running down her hands, thick and hot and red like blood, like she’s tearing herself apart. Maybe she is. Maybe she’s not just taking the dress apart. Maybe she’s tearing her skin off too, maybe she’s ripping off that pale, white thing that holds her together. Maybe that’s not just the dress surrounding her, maybe it’s scraps of flesh that she’s tearing loose. Maybe this is it; maybe this is the moment where she dies.   
And if it is, she’s not sure she minds, because everything is wrong. This is wrong. This is not who she is supposed to be; she is not supposed to be a forty-year old woman who made her living through blow jobs and café concerts and escaped Germany on the back of a failure. This isn’t what’s supposed to happen, and maybe if she peels her skin off, maybe if she strips herself down to a bag of bones and muscles and flesh, maybe then she won’t be this failure that she doesn’t want to be. Maybe then they’ll leave her be – she won’t be Hansel the naive boy or Hedwig the failed woman. Maybe she’ll just be a bag of bones that they’ll finally leave alone. There won’t be anymore – no more of Luther’s voice running through her mind whenever she looks at herself with no makeup on, no more of Tommy’s voice cutting through the radio waves, no more Yitzhak looking at her like he’s just waiting for the chance to escape.   
It’s the wig that comes off last, and that’s when Yitzhak comes towards her, confusion and horror in his big blue eyes, confusion and horror and concern and some emotion that she cannot name, and she can hardly stop to think before she wrenches him away from her, sends him flying, pushes him hard so that he flies across the stage and falls and looks up at her with eyes burning. He’s crying. He’s crying, the wig is in his hands and she’s screaming and he’s screaming and the lights are flashing, the band is roaring, the crowd is deadly silent, and there’s nothing she can do, she can’t hear herself think and the next thing she knows she’s stumbling off the stage, screaming and sobbing and doing her best to get away from every thought running through her mind. Doing her best to get away from the woman she is, from the boy she was, from everything she’s been and everything she doesn’t want to be.   
And then she finds herself in the back alley, rain falling from the sky, and for once it’s quiet.   
There’s one other person out there and at first she thinks it’s a rogue fan, or maybe even Phyllis, not willing to watch her star lose her shit on stage, and then she sees the unmistakable gleam of a silver cross on his forehead. She’d drawn it there so many years ago; she’d put it on him and marked him as her own and then he’d run from her, taking the best parts of her, taking her music and her soul and maybe her only chance of finding her other half.   
Of course, there’s always the chance that she’d just thrown her other half across the stage, but that’s not something she can bear to consider now, not when she’s already left so much of herself behind on the stage. She’s almost entirely naked back here – the black dress is in tatters on the floor. To her surprise, she hasn’t torn off her skin, although there are angry red marks from where her nails dug in too deep. She’s still alive; she’s going to continue to be this woman that she isn’t sure she wants to be. Even her wig is gone – God, when was the last time there was no wig on her head? They’ve been a part of her life ever since Luther left her alone in fucking Kansas. Certainly, she’d never let Tommy see her without one.  
Although, to be fair, he’s never seen her like this either, broken and sobbing and still considering a quick trip to the top of the Empire State Building. He’s staring at her; she can feel his eyes burning into her back, the same blue as hers – the same blue as Yitzhak’s – maybe there’s something to be said for that. Or maybe she’s over-analyzing everything again, believing in a myth that’s nothing more than that, a myth.   
Tommy’s still looking at her. He has to know it’s her – who else would be performing some batshit crazy rock concert just next door to him? Or, maybe he doesn’t. After all, it’s not like she’s wearing any of her usual disguises. There’s no wig, no elaborate dress, no tomatoes shoved down the front of a warped bra.   
“Hedwig?” he asks, and he sounds just like the teenager he was when she met him – that same voice, that same whining edge. “Is that you?”   
A dark, bitter chuckle slipped out of her, and she wasn’t sure where it had come from, where it had originated. “That’s very much up for debate, isn’t it?” she asked, realizing just how true her words were as she said them. Was she Hedwig anymore, the glam rocker who poisoned everyone she came near? Was Hansel still somewhere inside, the passive little boy that just watched life happen, that let people move him around and waited to see where he would end up? Or was it something else altogether, some strange mashing of the two, or something entirely separate from them?   
He’s taken aback by that for a moment, and for a long time he’s just standing there silently, the two of them both nearly naked, him with glitter on his forehead, her with streaks of it running down her face.   
“I wanted to apologize to you,” he said hesitantly, as if afraid of unlocking some dark, angry side of Hedwig. “I’ve – I’ve wanted to. Ever since the album went big.”   
“But you never did,” she pointed out, looking at him. He’s got a guitar slung over his back – if she’s right, it’s the same one he had when she taught him, the same one they played all their songs on for the first time. And all of a sudden he’s strumming it, and words are pouring free of him. The tune is familiar – of course it is, of course he’s apologizing to her with one of her own songs – but it’s the words that hit her like a punch in the face.   
Words that she never wrote, words that he had to come up with on his own. Words about loneliness. About being alone, about not matching anyone else. Words about an empty sky. Words about taking and taking and never giving back, words begging for forgiveness, and before she knows what’s happening, she’s crying again. It’s not the raw, screaming sobs that slipped out of her before. She’s too tired for those now, too tired for the bone-deep cries that had wracked her only moments earlier. Right now it’s quiet, simple, just tears streaming down her cheeks and blurring her makeup so much that it looks like it was never even there.   
He finishes, and for a long moment, neither of them speaks. She’s reeling. One line is stuck in her head, over and over.   
It seems the stranger’s always you.  
Alone, again, in some new wicked little town.  
The truth in that line alone, it might as well be a knife, slashing her open. It would’ve been easier if Tommy had stabbed her. It would’ve hurt less. As much as she wants to ignore him, as much as she wants to pretend he didn’t know her, that song contradicts that.  
His hand is on her forehead, and when he moves away, when she touches it, her hand comes away covered in silver glitter.   
They’ve barely spoken. A few words, a song, that’s it. A few words, a song, and one quick motion, and it’s like the entire world has shifted.   
She glances back towards the stage door. She has to go back in there, has to go fix this disaster that she’s wrought. There’s no more to it than that. Phyllis is probably hiding in a corner, figuring out how to spin this. She has no idea where the band might be. Or Yitzhak.  
Not Yitzhak.   
Not Yitzhak.   
Krystal, that was the name, the name he had chosen all those years ago, the name she’d stripped away just like Luther had stripped away the boy that was Hansel. She’d shoved him down, stamping him into the dust until he was nothing, until he was nothing but a man who dreaded waking up every morning, until his life was nothing but a series of days, strung together.   
Without saying goodbye, she walks back into the building. She wanders to the stage. She’s only been outside for maybe five minutes, but everything seems to have shifted. The entire world seems to have changed. Everything is different. The band is playing, and she starts to sing along, realizing that they’re trying to act as if this is all part of the show, as if this is just a normal night here with Hedwig. It’s the opening strands of Midnight Radio, and she does her best to sing along – this might be their only chance to salvage the show.  
Krystal is still on the stage. She’s kneeling, the wig clutched in her small hands, with Skszp crouched down next to her, murmuring in Croatian. She can see the small cut on the side of her face – it must have happened when Hedwig shoved her. Tere’s no other time for it, and of course that tiny line of red makes her feel even worse. Her voice shakes, trembles, and that’s when Krystal looks up, eyes fixing on hers. Breathe.   
She approaches them, and Krystal stands on shaky knees, looking at her with defiant eyes, burning blue like fire. Skszp stands behind her, lurking protectively over her shoulder, giving Hedwig one of his famous death glares, the ones that have been known to make the entire band cower in terror. Feel.   
She takes the wig from Krystal, and the poor, tired girl lets go, the light fading from her eyes, the anger extinguishing. She’s so tired. Hedwig can see it in her eyes. She’s tired of fighting, tired of hoping, tired of pretending that her life will get any better. And it’s because of Hedwig that she’s like that. They could’ve been a happy couple, or something close to it. But of course, Hedwig hadn’t allowed that. Love.   
She ran her fingers through the wig, fluffed it, and touched the purple streaks one last time. This had been one of her first wigs, one of the ones she’d bought in Topeka after she’d finally begun to make some money. And then she held it out to Krystal, held it out to her long-suffering wife, held it out to her as if it were a white flag, the final surrender in a war that had gone on far too long. Give.   
Krystal's eyes flare again, just for the briefest second, and she takes the wig, lifting it – but she directs it towards Hedwig, as if she’s going to place it on her head, the same thing she’s done for the past however many years. Hedwig looks at her, mouths one word, no, two letters. It’s easy as that, and confusion spreads across Krystal’s face – her sweet, innocent face – and then she realizes what’s happening. The confusion turns to happiness, the happiness melting into radiant, glowing joy, and she places the wig on her head. Only a few feet away, she can see that same happiness echoed in Skszp’s face. Free.   
And then she goes.   
She turns, she goes, and she vanishes backstage.  
She leaves, just like Hedwig has always feared she would. She’s gone, gone gone gone gone gone, and she’s probably not coming back. For a moment, she lets herself imagine – lets herself picture Krystal vanishing, passing through the back door, passing by Tommy, passing into the rest of the world.   
Skszp looks at her, and there’s not even a hint of sympathy there – this is what she deserves, to be left alone like this. After everything she’s done, she can’t blame Krystal for leaving at the first opportunity.   
The song goes on, the list of rockers, the plea to hold on, to hold on tightly and never let go. The duet begins, and Skszp leans into the microphone, doing his best to fill up the void where Krystal’s voice should be.   
And then – and then –   
She’s back.   
She’s more than back. She’s whole, finally, Hedwig can see it in every step and in the brightness of her eyes and in the wide, wide smile that stretches across her face. Gone is the leather jacket, gone are the jeans, gone is the little apostrophe. She’s wearing the wig, that brilliant mass of blonde and violet, and it fits like it belongs to her, like it’s always been there.   
And then there’s the dress, this purple, butterfly-studded monstrosity that seems to defy gravity, with its long streaming skirt and the glittering corset and then there’s the shoes, glittering heels that she walks in as if she’s had years of experience. And she’s twirling, allowing the audience a full view of this violently violet ball of glitter, and she’s singing too, letting Skszp fall back, and they’re both in sync, the two of them finally on the same page for the first time.   
The song ends with Krystal holding that last, triumphant note, her arms raised, her fingers spread, as if she’s reaching to touch the sky. Her face is split open in a smile, and Hedwig realizes that she’s wearing makeup, too, her lips shimmering red and her eyes sparkling. There’s tears, gathered in the corners of her eyes, held back by sheer willpower as she stares at the audience, as she stares at a crowd that is cheering only for her.   
The song crashes to an end, and they share one small kiss before the audience goes wild.


	2. Yitzhak

Maybe it’s petty to keep opening the door like this, but there’s not much else he can do to take revenge on Hedwig. Hedwig’s spent the entire night being ruder than ever –ordering ~~her~~ him around, demanding that crate every thirty seconds, even telling the story of how they met in Croatia, how she killed Krystal, crushed down the only seed of happiness ~~s~~ he’d had in those long, bitter years. Of course, that identity was still there, still lurking under the surface; no matter what Hedwig did to ~~her~~ him, she couldn’t censor ~~her~~ his thoughts.

            Not that this stopped ~~her~~ him from trying. It was easier to imagine Krystal being dead and gone; it wasn’t as if ~~s~~ he’d ever get to return to that wholeness. It hurt, sometimes, to think that way, but it was the only way that life could go on; it was the only way ~~s~~ he could stay with Hedwig. Anything else would drag ~~her~~ him into a hole he wasn’t sure he could escape.

            _Just turn it off. Keep it boxed down. Don’t think of her._ It was the motto that had gotten ~~her~~ him through all the long years, all the horrid months trekking around the country. Don’t think of her, don’t think of glittering dresses and soft wigs and sleek makeup. Just be Yitzhak. Think of Yitzhak. Stay Yitzhak.

            It’s Hedwig’s screaming that finally drags ~~her~~ him out of ~~her~~ his thoughts. She’s shrieking, screaming bloody murder, and for a minute he’s worried that maybe she’s hurt, maybe something’s really, really wrong, maybe she’s managed to injure herself further and everything’s about to end.

            (If she dies, do they get their passports back? It’s a discussion the band's had over and over, often while plotting her murder.  The second most-popular question is who gets custody of Hedwig III, the child with the most unfortunate namesake, although at least she had more vowels than Skszp.)

            (Of course, ~~her~~ _his_ first question is whether Krystal can come back.)

            _Don’t think about it._

It takes almost a minute to realize that there’s nothing wrong – at least, not physically. Hedwig is tearing at herself – her long silver nails leave red scratches across her skin, as if she’s been clawed by a cat – and she’s tearing at her dress, letting it fall around her in black slinky scraps, as if it’s nothing more than trash. She’s shrieking, screaming at the top of her lungs, and in the flashing lights of the stage, her face looks sunken and horrific, as if she really is some sort of terrible reanimated corpse. The audience looks terrified – none of them know what’s going on. Some of them think this is a performance, maybe, but it’s becoming more and more clear that this is real, that something is seriously wrong and nobody knows what to do.

            It’s when she starts to tear the wig off that Yitzhak steps closer, trying to put a hand on her arm, trying to calm her – only to find ~~herself~~ himself flying, falling, hitting the hard floor of the stage with a thud and feeling a cut open up on the side of ~~her~~ his face.

            ~~S~~ he ignores it when ~~s~~ he sees the wig, only a few feet away, a mop of violently bright platinum blonde right there, right where ~~s~~ he can reach it, and with the way Hedwig is acting right now, she won’t mind.

            Before ~~s~~ he knows what’s going on, ~~s~~ he’s holding the wig, and there’s this terrible, possessive growl peeling out of ~~her~~ his mouth, a warning to anyone who tries to take this wig from ~~her~~ him. In the back of ~~her~~ his head ~~s~~ he knows that this won’t last. In a few minutes, Hedwig is going to claim her wig again, but for now, it’s ~~hers~~ his, and nobody can take it. Skszp is at ~~her~~ his side, his hands running over the cut, and that’s when Yitzhak realizes that Hedwig is gone.

            She’s vanished, gone, run off somewhere. The dress is still in a puddle on the floor; it’s torn to shreds and covered with crushed tomatoes.

            Skszp turns Yitzhak's face towards him, murmuring in Croatian. He looks angry, angrier than Yitzhak's ever seen him, absolutely livid with fury as he puts his hand over the cut in an effort to stop the bleeding. It’s not severe, it’s not deep, and it’s hardly something that even matters to Yitzhak right now – all ~~s~~ he wants to do is run, run away from this stage, keep the wig clutched in her hands and go. Go back to the hotel. Find the passports. Run away – run far, far away, go anywhere but here. Just go, vanish, take this wig and take Skszp and maybe the others and run.

            Of course, they can’t go.  That’s not something that would ever be allowed to happen. Hedwig wouldn’t let it, no matter how damaged she was.

            Skszp is shaking ~~her~~ him, and Yitzhak finally looks at him, sees the worry that’s hiding behind the anger. “Are you okay?” he demands, in that familiar, soft Croatian that they both know so well.

            “I’m fine,” ~~s~~ he says, touching a hand to the side of ~~her~~ his face, surprised when it comes away sticky and red; maybe the cut is worse than it looks. “It was an accident.”

            “Doesn’t matter,” Skszp insists, and that fury comes back, and Yitzhak knows it’s directed at Hedwig now. “She _hurt_ you.”

            “It’s not the first time,” ~~s~~ he points out – Skszp has always known the terms of their marriage – but he shakes his head.

            “That’s different,” he says, and Yitzhak's sure he’s wrong – all of Hedwig’s earlier damages caused far more pain than this tiny little cut.  Nothing could hurt more than having Krystal ripped away .  “She’s never laid a hand on you before.”

            Yitzhak sighs.  “There’s a first time for everything.” 

            At this, Skzsp looks as if he could commit murder.  “I’m going to kill her,” he murmurs, the promise quiet and certain.

            This is wrong. Of course this is wrong; people don’t throw their spouses across the room, not under any circumstance. But this – this is Hedwig.  This is a woman who has never had anyone show her how to be right, how to deal with her emotions in a way that wasn’t insane. It was an accident, it was nothing more than that; it was a reaction that she couldn’t quite control. Maybe it’s wrong, maybe it’s awful, but Krystal can understand, as much as she hates being able to.  (No, not Krystal.  She's dead.  She's gone.)

            Skszp moves to put an arm on her shoulder, and she – he – flinches away, and they’re both surprised – hugs are how Yitzhak feels better. Sure, he doesn’t welcome them as much now as she did when she was Krystal – _don’t think like that, no –_ but they were still a form of comfort, they were still what Yitzhak retreated to when Hedwig made everything else unbearable. Skszp looks at her, eyes dark and angry, and Yitzhak looks away from him, wanting to do nothing more than focus on this wig in his hands, wishing that he was brave enough to place it on his head.

            The band resumes playing.  They’re trying to act like this is remotely normal, like all of this is planned. Yitzhak's pretty sure everyone can tell it’s not – what kind of concerts end with a nervous breakdown and spousal abuse?

            And then he hears the voice, the familiar voice that they’ve been playing backup to for the past several years. It’s Hedwig, coming back to the stage – and she’s still a mess, she’s still crying, but she looks different, lighter, as if something has changed in the past five minutes. She’s managing to sing along to the band – they’re playing the finale, Midnight Radio, a desperate plea to get them all off this stage as fast as possible. 

            Hedwig comes closer, and Yitzhak feels Skszp tensing up, ready to defend ~~her~~ him if he has to.

            Before Yitzhak knows what's happening, he holds the wig out, letting go of the defiance and determination that had filled ~~her~~ him only moments before. The wig isn’t ~~hers~~ his, it can’t be.  Hedwig will never let it be. Hedwig stops ~~her~~ his hand, and a dark scowl gashes across Yitzhak's face – he knows what this is. Hedwig wants ~~her~~ him to place the wig right on her head, crowning her as if she’s a queen.

            There’s nothing to do about it now, and the last thing ~~s~~ he wants is to push Hedwig back into that breakdown, so he moves to obey, moving to put the mop of platinum on top of her head – and then Hedwig catches ~~her~~ his hand.

            Hedwig's still singing, but her eyes are boring into Yitzhak's face, heavy with a thousand unspoken apologies, and then she takes the wig, presses it gently into _~~her~~ his _ arms, and then she lets go.  Trembling hands lift the wig and Yitzhak puts it on.

            _“Free,”_ Hedwig whispers, and maybe it’s just a lyric from the song, maybe it’s just the same song that she’s sung a thousand times over, but this, this is different, she’s telling _her_ – her, she can be her again, Krystal isn’t dead anymore, she can be her now if that’s what she wants and of course it’s what she wants, it’s what she’s been hoping for for so many years, so much time spent longing for her – Hedwig's telling her to go, or to stay – to make her own choice, to free herself, to be what she wants to be.

            Krystal meets Hedwig's eyes for a long moment, and she nods, and then she vanishes backstage.

            For a minute, she thinks she’s leaving. She’s going, she’s going to slip out the stage door and find her passport and then she’s going to go.  She doesn’t know where, but she’s going to go somewhere.

            And then she sees the dress.

            She’s been carrying it around since Croatia, or, rather, Hedwig has – Hedwig’s always loved this mass of purple glitter, even though it’s far too small for her. Maybe by now Krystal won’t fit into it either, but it’s worth a shot, it’s worth one final go.

            Before she knows what she’s doing, she’s pulling it on, and it fits perfectly, as if it’s been waiting here for her to come back for it.

            It’s on, and it fits, and everything feels right again. She goes over to Hedwig’s makeup, putting on only the bare minimum, at least for now – she wants to be out on the stage before the song ends.  The end of the song is a duet and maybe Skszp can cover for her for a few minutes, but he certainly can’t do the end of it; that’s something that only she can do.

            She slips her feet into the glittering high heels, and then she’s back out on the stage.

            Hedwig looks at her, and there’s a thousand emotions on her face at once – hope, joy, love, excitement – and regret, so much regret, coloring every line of her face. Skszp’s grinning like the asshole he is, and as she steps closer to the microphone he slinks back, stepping back into the shadows, going back to his place besides Jacek. The rest of the band is happy but confused – most of them have no idea what just happened on stage.  They know vaguely about Krystal, but they don’t know every detail the same way Hedwig and Skszp do.

            And then even Hedwig steps back, and it’s just her, singing, the star for once, and the audience is screaming and cheering and clapping and it’s for her, she knows it.  For once she’s getting their attention, and the thought is enough to make tears gather in her eyes as the song crashes to an end.


	3. Skszp

It’s satisfying, watching Yitzhak throw the back door open like he is. Hedwig is devolving onstage, every song driving her further and further to the brink, and as much as he cares for her ultimately, he cares for Yitzhak more. Of course he does; how could he not? Yitzhak’s the one he grew up with; Yitzhak’s the one who kept him company all those long years. Yitzhak’s not the one dragging them around after Tommy Gnosis; Yitzhak’s not the one who makes everything into a dramatic mess.   
Of course Skszp has a soft spot for him, of course he does; he’s been in love with him for the past God knows how long, whether he’s Yitzhak or Krystal. He’s happy enough to let him be, content to just be there as his best friend, but, if Yitzhak ever changes his mind…  
He shakes his head; there’s no reason to think like that. Even if Yitzhak wants to leave – of course he does, he’s only traded one hell for another – Hedwig will never let him. There’s no way she’d let one of her creations slip away from her the way Tommy did.   
For the most part, he’s ignoring the meltdown. It’s not something that he cares to watch; it’s not something new. Sure, maybe she’s being more over-the-top than usual. Well, of course she is; this isn’t part of the show. But he’s never known how to manage these, not that any of them do.   
And then she pushes Yitzhak. She pushes him away, shoves him hard, and his slight body goes flying – he lands hard, sprawling out across the stage, and there’s blood. He’s bleeding and there’s a lot of blood; there’s a lot of blood and for a long, horrid moment he’s not moving. There has to be something wrong but it can’t be – it can’t be dead; Yitzhak has to be fine.  
Yitzhak moves, and Skszp starts breathing again. For a horrid moment, he had thought that was it, that he wasn’t going to move again. That this was going to be the end of his best friend. That Hedwig had finally gone too far.   
Not that this wasn’t going too far. She’d shoved him across the stage, and he was already small and frail…but at least he’s okay. It doesn’t look like that bad of a cut, luckily. Of course, Skszp would still like to grab Hedwig by the throat and throttle her, but for now he’s more focused on Yitzhak.   
Yitzhak, however, seems to be completely ignoring the wound, as if it’s not even there. Instead, his eyes are fixed on Hedwig’s discarded wig, and he grabs at it with a terrible possessive scream, the sound of it barely audible over the crashing of the band. Skszp doesn’t know where Hedwig’s gone, not that he cares right now – Yitzhak’s hurt and bleeding; of course that’s where he’s going to focus all of his attention.   
(Though, if Hedwig does happen to wander back on stage, he’d be happy to distract himself from his best friend for a minute or two to murder her.)   
Skszp doesn’t even care about the song they’re meant to be playing – this show’s already gone to shit, there’s not much they can do to salvage it now. It can’t get any worse. He puts his guitar down and goes to Yitzhak’s side, goes to put an arm around him, but then Yitzhak flinches away. Skszp contents himself with trying to stop the bleeding – not that it’s bad, but he can’t bear to watch his best friend be hurt and be unable to do anything about it.   
“Are you okay?” he asks, and it comes out harsher than he means for it to – he’s worried, he’s panicked, there’s a thousand justifications running through his mind but he’s pretty sure it’s just misplaced fury. Fury he’d like to aim towards the currently missing Hedwig.   
“I’m fine,” Yitzhak says, still clutching that wig so tightly, like he’s afraid someone’s going to tear it away from him, even though that’s not something Skszp would ever even consider doing. Even still, Yitzhak raises a hand to the cut on his face; his blue eyes are wide with surprise when his fingers come away covered in blood. “It was an accident.” And it’s worth it, at least to him; Skszp can hear that unspoken phrase as his best friend looks down at the wig that he’s clinging to like a lifeline. Maybe he’s hurt, but he’s also closer to Krystal than he’s been in years. If Hedwig is gone for good, that means that Krystal can come back, and Skszp’s sure that for Yitzhak, that’s enough.   
“That doesn’t matter,” Skszp pointed out, and he can hear that anger in his voice again, that fury creeping back, dark and black. Before he knows it, he’s planning Hedwig’s murder again. It wouldn’t be hard; the band would probably help him out. They’d at least help him hide the body, if they didn’t participate in the murder itself. Phyllis might help, too; it would all depend on how it worked out. Maybe he could stage it to look like a suicide – push her into traffic or something, shove a handful of drugs into her nightly bottle of whiskey. “She hurt you.”   
“It’s not the first time,” Yitzhak points out, raising an eyebrow, and Skszp knows he’s right. He’s watched Hedwig treat Yitzhak like crap for years now, like nothing more than a puppy that she can kick over and over. But this – this is a line she’s never crossed before. This is physical and violent. Maybe he can’t do anything about what Hedwig says, but he’ll kill her before he lets her touch Yitzhak again.   
“That’s different,” he manages, because they’d be here forever if he rattled off every thought running through his head right now. (They’d probably arrest him for conspiracy to commit murder, as well. He’d rather be arrested for the actual murder; at least then Yitzhak would be safe.) “She’s never laid a hand on you before.”   
“There’s a first time for everything.”  
It’s the acceptance in Yitzhak’s voice that scares him; he’s willing to stick with Hedwig through anything, anything at all, even if that leaves him cut and bleeding in front of God knows how many people.   
“I’m going to kill her,” he says softly. It’s no longer the joke that they’ve all made, something that’s been said over and over again as Hedwig rages through her tantrums. It’s a promise, deathly serious, something that he’d follow through on if given half the chance.   
He doesn’t get the chance to plan any further before Hedwig comes back. Maybe he could do it now – just lunge across the stage and strangle her. She’s strong, yeah, but she’ll be surprised, and right now she looks too tired to put up too much of a fight. She’s coming closer, and of course Yitzhak stands up; he’ll do anything she wants. Skszp stands in time with him, glaring at Hedwig over Yitzhak’s shoulder, ready to shove the bitch across the stage if he has to.  
When she reaches for the wig, he’s tempted.   
When she tries to make Yitzhak crown her with it, shoving her across the stage isn’t good enough anymore – he’s back to wanting to murder her.   
And then she blocks Yitzhak from putting it on.   
It all happens so fast then – a long look between the two, one whispered word, and then the wig is on Yitzhak’s head, and he’s grinning like a child on Christmas. Before Skszp knows it, he’s smiling too, and even Hedwig’s mouth is twitching up at the corners.   
And then Yitzhak goes.   
There’s another look, an even longer one than before, a long conversation between the two that’s managed without a single word.   
And then he goes, leaving Hedwig alone on stage, completely bare and alone, everything stripped from her. Her disguises, the wigs and outfits she wears like armor – they’re gone, and now so is the only person in the world who loves her unconditionally. And yet she’s still singing, still managing to keep up with the words as the band plays, still managing to elicit the occasional applause from the audience.   
When the duet part begins, Skszp tempted to leave her out to dry, just let her suffer and try to handle herself on stage even though she looks so desperate for help. It’s not like she can hit any of the notes at the end of this song – only Yitzhak can do that, really, and he’s made the very smart decision to leave. Neither can Skszp, though he can probably get closer. Either way, the finale’s going to be a mess, another disaster on top of the dozens that have happened tonight.   
Before he even knows what he’s doing, he’s leaning in to do his best to cover the notes – why not? He can murder Hedwig after this all ends, but nothing good can come out of just leaving her there. Hedwig drapes an arm over his shoulder, and he looks at her, disbelieving. She’s never touched him – or any of them, for that matter – and this isn’t exactly the best time to start. (Also, this is a perfect chance to strangle her.)  
They’re only singing together for a few seconds when Yitzhak comes back.   
Except Yitzhak is gone now. He’s so gone, discarded backstage with the leather jacket and everything else. It’s Krystal again, and her face is split open in a smile. She’s wearing that purple dress, the one he knows so well, the one she was wearing when she begged Hedwig to marry her. It still fits her as well as ever, as if it was made just for her. She’s sparkling and smiling and for a minute she might as well be the only person on stage, because against her, the rest of them are nothing. Even Hedwig’s still for a minute – looking at her, her eyes wide with realization and confusion and some other emotion that Skszp can’t quite name, something that might just be quite close to love.   
Krystal takes over Skszp’s part easily, effortlessly, twirling around so that everyone can see the train of her dress billowing out behind her, a waterfall of fabric and glitter and butterflies. Even the wig looks like it fits her, as if it hasn’t just come from Hedwig.   
She’s singing, belting out the notes, and it’s not with the resigned exhaustion that Yitzhak always did. She’s singing her heart out, and Skszp can’t help but smile. She looks back at him, raises an eyebrow, and then turns her attention back to the audience – to an audience that is going wild, an audience that has no idea what’s going on but an audience that loves her. An audience that she’s been missing for so long.   
The final notes fade away, and he can see the tears in her eyes – these aren’t the sad ones that he’s used to seeing, the melancholy tears that she won’t let fall because she doesn’t want to seem weak. This is excitement; this is happiness; this is joy that she can’t hold in. She’s whole, back together again, almost as if there was never anything wrong in the first place. She leans in, gives Hedwig a short, gentle kiss, and then Skszp can’t hear himself think over the roar of the crowd.


	4. Tommy

His concert’s finally over, and he can hear the crowd outside. He’s supposed to go out there, wade through the screaming fans, work his way through the crowd, signing autographs and taking pictures and dealing with screaming fans telling him things that he’s heard a thousand times before. He’s got to get through there – his car is parked at the end of the crowd, just like it always is. It was an idea his manager had so that he’d always have some sort of fan interaction.   
Fan interaction, that’s something that he’s always hated. The concerts are draining; all he wants to do afterwards is have a fucking cigarette and go home. But, no, first he has to go deal with ten thousand screaming girls who lose their minds every time the door brushes open.   
And next door…he knows Hedwig’s there – he can hear her, too, right across the street. Whatever number she’s doing right now sounds absolutely insane – something loud and electric, filled with screaming. He can’t hear much of it, since there’s God knows how many walls between them, but he can hear enough to know it’s good. It’s not a song he knows, either – she must’ve written it after they split.   
Of course, if her song is this loud, that means she wouldn’t have heard his apology. He took one of their songs, one of the first ones she wrote, and he changed the words, made it so that they fit what he wanted to say to her. He knows she’s been following him. He’s known she’s right next door; his manager always keeps a careful eye on his half-crazed mystery woman. He’d been half-hoping that she’d hear it, that she’d hear him and understand.   
But of course she didn’t. She probably never will.   
He can’t deal with the crowd tonight; it becomes certain in that moment. He can’t bear to deal with the screaming, the shouting, the flashing cameras and the papers he’s being asked to autograph. He can’t stand it, not tonight. His apartment’s only a few miles away and he can always take a cab; he doesn’t need his car.  
He slips out the back alley, lighting a cigarette and leaning against the wall, wanting to wait a minute or two just to make sure that he can slip out without notice. All it’d take is one crazed fan’s shriek, and they’ll all be here, a horde of people that he has to deal with.   
There is someone in the alley, and at first he’s sure it can’t be who he thinks it is. It can’t be Hedwig; there’s no way in hell that she’d be out in public looking like this. Her makeup’s almost entirely gone, and she’s not wearing one of her elaborate outfits – it’s just a pair of black boxers. Most importantly, there’s no wig on her head.   
He’s never seen her like this. They were together for months. They’d slept together and he’d seen her at all times of the day – and he’s never seen her without a wig. She sleeps with them on; he wouldn’t be surprised to learn that she showers wearing them. But now there’s nothing, nothing there, none of her usual disguises. She’s just there – bare, broken, every part of her on display.   
“Hedwig?” he manages, even though it’s not really a question; he recognizes those sad blue eyes. “Is that you?”   
The sound that slips out of her is darker than anything he’s ever heard – harsh and cold and oily, one that he’s never heard before, one that he’s fairly certain he never wants to hear again. “That’s very much up for debate, isn’t it?” she asks, in that lilting, philosophical tone he knows so well. He’s heard it a thousand times, whether she was mumbling about a lack of groceries or gently helping him fix a song or lying on the floor as she contemplated the mystery of the universe. He’s not quite sure what she means by it this time, so he presses forward, almost as if she hadn’t spoken.   
“I wanted to apologize to you,” he said, hesitating, hoping that he wouldn’t hear that dark, scary laugh again. “I’ve – I’ve wanted to. Ever since the album went big.” That’s lie; he’d been hoping she wouldn’t notice the album going big. He’d really only started wanting to apologize after he realized that she was going to hunt him to the ends of the earth otherwise.   
“But you never did,” she pointed out; her voice is cold and angry but somehow defeated, like she’s tired of having this battle over and over. Like she’s tired of fighting him and everyone else who’s working against her.   
He tries to say something, but then he remembers how she was – with an answer for everything, ready to shout at anyone she didn’t want to listen to.   
“Fine,” he manages, quiet, barely audible, and he’s fairly certain that she doesn’t even hear him. Before he knows what he’s doing, the guitar is in his hands again, and he’s singing his rewritten version of Wicked Little Town. The song that he rewrote for her, the song that he wanted her to hear, the song that he was hoping she’d hear, the song that he’d poured his heart into.   
Her face twists at one of the lines – And with all the changes you’ve been through / It seems the stranger’s always you – and he knows that hurt her, even though he’s not entirely sure why. Before he knows it, she’s crying, silent quiet tears slipping down her face, erasing whatever trace of makeup that remains.   
He finishes, and before he knows what he’s doing, he’s drawing a silver cross on her forehead, one that mirrors his, and he vividly remembers her doing this very thing for him, that afternoon in Kansas.   
And then she glances away from him, not speaking, not even able to meet his eyes as she looks at the door she came out of. Without a word, not even some sort of goodbye, she stumbles away, walking back inside like she’s had some sort of massive revelation.   
He’s not sure why, but he follows her.   
She doesn’t even notice, or maybe she does and just doesn’t care to talk to him, as he follows her, winding through the backstage. She goes back out on the stage, and he pauses there, standing in the shadows of the wings, looking at the spectacle on the stage. The rest of the band is playing music – a few figures that he’s pretty sure he’s seen before, a strange collection of Eastern European immigrants. The man that he’s pretty sure Hedwig is married to is crumpled on the floor, a wig clutched in his hands, and there’s another guy standing over his shoulder, looking at Hedwig with a raging fury.   
And Hedwig’s singing, her voice thready and weak at first, getting stronger after a few moments. She’s standing with the man crumpled on the ground – Yitzhak, isn’t that his name? – and they’re doing something with the wig. A long moment passes, and then the man smiles, a grin brighter than the sun, and then he rushes backstage, nearly knocking Tommy over.   
Hedwig’s alone now, still nearly naked, looking out hopelessly at the audience, as if she has no idea what’s going on, how she wound up out here, how she wound up alone on this stage in New York City.   
Alone, again, in some new wicked little town…  
Maybe that’s why the line hurt so much; maybe that’s why she wasn’t speaking to him; maybe his apology hurt more than it healed. She’s still singing, she’s still doing her best, but he knows her – he knows that face; he saw it all the time before they started working together, when she was watching his baby sister. It’s hopeless, resigned – sad above all, as if she’s just said goodbye to the best thing she has in her life. For all he knows, she did; the man with the wig still hasn’t come back; maybe he’s gone for good. Hedwig’s struggling, and it almost hurts to watch her alone like this; he’s almost tempted to go out there and help her. He doesn’t need to, because after a moment the man who looked furious – and who still looks a bit murderous – is out there, helping her out –   
And then there’s a ball of glitter at his side. He looks up for a minute, because whoever this is is wearing heels that makes sure she towers over everyone. Before Tommy can even register what’s happening, she’s on stage, and Hedwig looks happier than he’s ever seen her – he’s not sure if he’s ever seen her smile like that.   
They’re healing, he realizes, when they look at each other; there was something that was deeply wrong between them and now they’ve managed to fix it somehow. He doesn’t know what it was; he doesn’t know how they fixed it with a wig and a dress that uses more glitter than he does – but it whatever it was, they needed it.   
Tommy wants to watch more; he wants to know what’s going on, but he also knows that any minute now, they’re all going to be back here and he’ll have to deal with Hedwig again and that’s the last thing he wants to do. He doesn’t want to have to risk hearing that dark anger sliding out of her again – though, judging by her mood now, it’s unlikely she’ll be that way again. Even still, it’s not something he wants to risk, and he turns away from the stage, the roar of the crowd echoing in his ears as he slips out the back door.


	5. Phyllis

This is it; this is the night her career implodes.   
Hedwig has been strange and off-kilter all night, telling weird stories – Altoids and a facial transplant? – and rambling on and on about Tommy. Yitzhak isn’t helping, throwing that door open every time he gets angry. The rest of the band – well, considering some things that have happened in the past, they’re behaving tonight. Skszp looks angrier and angrier as everything goes on, but that’s not new either; he’s always been fiercely protective of Yitzhak.   
If she’d thought that she’d wind up managing shows like this, she would’ve skipped on this job interview, patiently sending her resume out to every other company in New York, because as much as she cared for Hedwig and the rest of them, she was fairly certain they’d taken years off her life. If she’d stayed in her shitty little apartment, living off ramen and late-night TV, she’d probably have less grey hairs, and maybe she’d even be managing a sane band, one that wasn’t always on the cusp of imploding.  
Right now, they’re not on the cusp of imploding; Hedwig’s already imploded. She’s dancing back and forth on the very delicate line of sanity, a tightrope walker tempting fate. Her stories are bizarre and rambling and strange, and Phyllis is fairly certain that half of them are fake – some are too insane to be real. She knows for a fact that the oven technique is genuine; they’ve had so many long nights wandering around cities looking for cheap hotel rooms with ovens that had the acoustics Hedwig wanted.   
And then the breakdown begins.   
Hedwig usually goes at this song with a bit more intensity than usual, but this is different. This is insane; this is crazed. She’s shoving, shouting, screaming, shrieking at the top of her lungs – she’s not even trying to sing; she’s just screaming. Yitzhak is in the background, trying to make sense of it, covering the lyrics, acting as if this is normal, but the audience looks terrified, and she doesn’t blame them. The lights are flashing, and when Hedwig starts pulling her dress off, Phyllis realizes this is it. This is the night her career dies, and from there on she can’t even bear to watch.  
She ducks even further backstage, hiding, wishing she’d brought a bottle of wine with her. She’s considered it before – the band has their vodka on stage; why can’t she slip some wine coolers in her purse? They’d be helpful right now – but then again, anything would be helpful right now. She’d even be willing to take their vodka.   
She’s debating looking through their things for liquor when Hedwig runs by, half-naked and sobbing, and then Phyllis just sits down on the floor, unable to move. That’s it; that’s her career running past. How’s she going to spin this on a resume? Oh, yes, I’m looking for a new job because the last person I managed had a complete psychotic break on stage. Or she could try to act like she’d planned it, maybe – not that it would work out. It’d probably get tangled in the grapevine and people would be convinced that she pushed her clients into breakdowns.   
Yeah, there’s no way to recover from this.   
(If that’s true, does that mean she can leave and go find some wine now?)   
She should probably check on the band, but at the same time…they’re the band. They’re fine; they’re always fine; it’s practically in their job description to always be fine. Yitzhak’s probably in tears – she would be, if she had to deal with Hedwig’s cruel comments in front of a massive crowd, night after night – but that’s something Skszp can deal with.   
She’s about to leave when Hedwig comes back. Tommy Gnosis is following behind her; that’s strange enough, and it gets even stranger two minutes later when Yitzhak comes running back, Hedwig’s wig on his head, his face split open in a smile.   
He’s tearing through the dress rack, and she’s tempted to help him when she sees him find what he’s looking for, and then it all falls into place – somehow, this is Hedwig’s doing, as if she’s attempting some sort of apology. Faster than Phyllis can blink, Yitzhak is dressed, looking like the same woman that opened for Hedwig on that night in Croatia; there’s makeup on his face and the wig on his head and before Phyllis can even consider speaking out loud, she’s gone, back on stage, back towards Hedwig’s voice.   
Hesitantly, she follows him. Maybe this isn’t the end of her career after all; maybe Yitzhak can salvage this show somehow. It’s not like he doesn’t have the star power – she saw him perform in Croatia, she saw how he was, she’s even tried to convince Hedwig to give Yitzhak some of the spotlight, not that that suggestion was ever taken seriously.   
But now – maybe she’s listened.   
Maybe she’s listened, because Yitzhak’s standing in the middle of the stage – what was his stage name, was it Krystal? She’d only heard it that one time in Croatia – it’s not like Hedwig lets him use it – and he’s sparkling, happier than she’s ever seen him. Hedwig’s singing along for a minute before stepping back, letting Krystal shine.  
And she is shining – not only because the dress reflects more light than a disco ball, but just personally – her face is split open in a smile, and her hands are raised, arms stretching towards the sky, towards the audience. And the audience is lapping this up – they’re laughing; they’re clapping; they’re cheering. They have no idea what they’ve just watched but they approve of whatever it is; they love whatever it is they’re watching.   
Maybe her career isn’t entirely over. If she can spin this right – she’s probably got a contact somewhere that she can use, some angle she can milk – maybe a redemption, maybe a success story, who knows? Maybe she won’t even have to spin it – judging by the audience, by the way they’ve already got their phones out, with their fingers dancing over their keyboards; they’re already putting out a decent amount of free advertising.   
The song ends with Krystal belting out that last note like the star Phyllis always knew she could be – should be – and there’s a short moment of silence as the song crashes to the end, and then the crowd goes mad.   
(Maybe her career isn’t dead after all.)


End file.
